Everything but the Squeal
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: And here's to another year of rooting around and moving forward!


**Everything but the Squeal**

by L.M. Lewis

Hardcastle heard the front door open and a remarkably tentative "Judge?" from the front hallway a moment before McCormick appeared in the doorway to the den.

"How 'bout a little one-on-one?"

The garb was right – a battered gray t-shirt and shorts, more suitable for yard work than anything else – but the timing was wrong. Hardcastle glanced down at his watch to confirm that and then looked up again.

"Don't you have a date and some kinda shindig to go to?"

McCormick shrugged and leaned against the doorjamb. "I did have a date and we _did_ have a 'shindig'. Is that Arkansas for a gathering of young professionals on the make?"

"No," Hardcastle frowned consideringly, "we'd call that a bee, or a frolic."

"Well," McCormick cocked his head, "no bee for me. Andrea's sick. The flu, she says."

"You can't frolic solo, huh?"

"Not on New Year's Eve – what the hell would I do at midnight?"

Hardcastle considered that one, too, and after a moment suggested, "Stand under the mistletoe and hope for the best?"

Mark flashed a grimace and then said, slowly and sternly, "One. On. One. _Come_."

He turned, disappearing back into the hallway. Hardcastle heard the ball bounced once against the hard floor, for effect. He sighed and lumbered to his feet to follow the younger man.

OOOOO

All right, the crisp air was invigorating. Hardcastle took a deep breath in and let it out with satisfaction. There was no moon but after a few moments of adaptation, the stars to the west were brilliant.

"Twenty-one?" Mark asked. "I gotta warn you, though, I'm tapped out. I got a nice box of long-stem roses if that'll make it more interesting."

"From the garden?" Hardcastle looked alarmed.

"This time of year?" Mark shook his head. "No, from the florist."

"Well, I only like 'em when they're attached to plants." He took a swipe at the ball McCormick had been holding casually and dribbled it in a fast one-two. "Hey," he straightened abruptly and tucked the ball into the crook of his arm, "I got a proposition."

McCormick eyed him suspiciously.

"Oh, there you go looking like that. Sheesh. You haven't even heard it yet."

"No," Mark said cautiously, "but I've heard many from the same guy and some of them involved getting shot at."

"Not lately," Hardcastle said righteously.

McCormick still had one eyebrow raised, a slightly askance expression.

"This one won't even cost you anything."

"Those kind are the most expensive," Mark pointed out.

"Okay," Hardcastle said, cutting to the chase, "you know that package that came from Aunt May and Aunt Zora last week?"

"The one with the quart jar in it, and I asked you if you thought it was spoiled and you said it always looks like that – _that_ package?"

Hardcastle nodded.

"You never actually told me what it was supposed to be," Mark said.

"Well," the judge scratched his chin with his free hand, "guess I didn't, probably 'cause I didn't figure you'd be around much tonight, or even in the morning. It's kind of an Arkansas tradition."

"What is?"

"The stuff in the jar. You got your black-eyed peas and your hog jowls – "

"Hog _what_?"

"Hog jowls. You know, _jowls_, like cheeks." He pointed to his own. "The cheeks of a hog," he said slowly.

"I know what a jowl is," Mark grinned, "I just didn't know anybody _ate_ them."

Hardcastle cocked his head. "'Course people do. Jowls, and feet and head cheese and all that stuff."

"Sounds offal."

Hardcastle pitched the ball at him, head-height, which he intercepted.

"My twenty against your voluntary consumption of a bowl of Arkansas' finest black-eyed peas. First guy to twenty-one."

McCormick nodded once, sharply, and took the ball out. Somehow, without formally agreeing to it, they'd decided to play by ambient light, which was precious little from the distant windows of the main house.

It might've been that the darkness made Hardcastle's brand of guerrilla ball particularly effective. Or it could've been that McCormick was already feeling the onset of whatever malady had struck down his current girlfriend. Either way, the younger man started flagging in the mid-teens, and by the time Hardcastle sank the final ball – a three-pointer from deep in the courtside shadows – McCormick was bent over, hands on knees, panting.

"You look like a guy who could use a nice glass of Pinky Fizz and a little home cookin'," Hardcastle observed.

McCormick turned his head sideways and glared up at him. "Cheating is okay, but gloating is not."

The judge smiled beatifically and slapped McCormick on the back, hefting him upright with an arm under one of the younger man's elbows.

"Don't worry, you got a few hours before you have to pay up. We're not supposed to eat the stuff until after midnight."

OOOOO

They reclined, Hardcastle in one of the wingbacks with an ottoman, and McCormick on the sofa, definitely feeling the onslaught of the virus. They watched _Stagecoach_, and then, as that was winding to a close, Hardcastle got to his feet.

"Time to break out the peas and all."

Mark frowned at the clock, and then him. "But it's only ten o'clock."

"It's midnight in Arkansas. I figure that's what counts. Besides, you're fading fast. You don't want to have to eat it for breakfast, do ya?"

He headed for the steps and the door, gesturing for the younger man to follow. Mark rose reluctantly.

The preparation was simple enough, consisting of popping the lid on the quart-sized Ball jar, dumping the contents into a saucepan, and stirring the whole mess occasionally until it was heated through. Mark cooperated to the tune of fetching the bowls and spoons and setting the table.

Hardcastle, based on unknown criteria, decided when it was done. He turned off the burner, brought the saucepan to the table, served out a decent dollop into McCormick's bowl, then filled his own and set the pan back on the stove. McCormick was still eyeing the concoction with suspicion while Hardcastle pulled his own chair out, seated himself with enthusiasm, and prepared to dig in.

"So what's the deal with this stuff?" Mark pointed to the lumps piled in his bowl. "It's a Hardcastle family tradition or something?"

The judge looked at him sharply. "Not my family – _everybody's_ family. You never heard about black-eyed peas, huh?"

"Nope, no jowls, either." He nudged one potentially cheeky bit to the side, determined to eat around it, if possible.

"See, there you go, you learn something everyday, and not just in law school. Now this is supposed to have a nice side of collard greens to go with it, but I figured if I told you to pick some up you'd bring home cauliflower or something, so we're just going to have to make do."

"That's a deal breaker for me – no green collars, I'm outta here." Mark made to rise.

"Siddown." Hardcastle pointed with his spoon. "A bet's a bet. No welshing."

Mark wrinkled his nose, but resumed his seat.

"Anyway," Hardcastle went on, conversational again, "the tradition is, you eat these at the start of the New Year and it means you'll prosper the rest of the year." He reached over till his spoon was hovering over McCormick's bowl, pointing more directly. "See, these are the peas. They get bigger when you cook 'em. That means your wealth will grow. The collard greens, well, they're green, right? Like money."

"Gotcha," Mark said, then, after a moment's thought, he said, "And the jowls are for living high on the hog?"

"Nah," Hardcastle shook his head, "least that's not what my ma used to say. You put the pork in because pigs, they're always rooting around, looking for stuff. Moving forward, ya know?"

"'Rooting around, looking for stuff'?"

"_And_ moving forward," Hardcastle said encouragingly. "Now try it."

Mark dipped his spoon into one edge – a non-jowly edge – tentatively, and lifted it up, scantly full. He paused for a moment, reminding himself that he was not a welsher, then opened his mouth and plunged the spoon in.

It was . . . surprisingly tasty.

He chewed, not that much of that was required, and swallowed. Then he looked at Hardcastle, who'd been waiting expectantly, and said, "I thought stuff that was good for you was supposed to taste bad."

The judge grinned. "Not when the aunts make it."

OOOOO

**Author's Postscript: **A very Happy and Prosperous New Year to all the readers, pea-eating or otherwise, and a special thanks to Deanna, Karen, Cheri, and Kit, whose familiarity with U.S. Southern food-ways and lore fueled this tidbit.


End file.
